


Rest well, my love, for dawn comes on swift heels--

by LaRondine (messier31)



Category: La Fanciulla del West (Puccini)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coda, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Operas, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Vignette, Wedding Night, Weddings, opera fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier31/pseuds/LaRondine
Summary: Seven moments from the opera La Fanciulla del West.
Relationships: Minnie/Dick Johnson
Kudos: 2





	Rest well, my love, for dawn comes on swift heels--

**Author's Note:**

> first if you're reading this leave me a comment so that i know i'm not the only one totally in love with lfdw lol // seven scenes, johnson's POV, of times he has watched minnie sleep (in the least creepy way possible). all of this takes place outside of the opera itself, and there are some references to my other stories in it so go check those out.
> 
> xox

ONE

She was sleeping the first time he ever saw her. Hat pulled over her face, reclined on a bench on the porch of the busy roadhouse. He watched a stray lock of golden-blonde hair twist and dance in the wind, lingering outside for a moment before entering the dark bar. 

He ran into her again later that night, though she did not recognize him, nor did he claim to recognize her. With a shot glass in front of her, she’d looked at him incredulously when he ordered water with his whiskey.

“Where I come from, we take our whiskey straight!” she laughed, nudging him with her arm. He raised his glass and toasted her playfully. He did not catch her name. He wondered if she was alone; surely it was just a little unusual, though not unheard of. 

He caught her a final time the next morning, just as she was leaving. By herself, he noted. Feeling rather silly, he mounted his horse nonetheless, hooves clopping on the dusty path as he rode to her, wait, wait. 

She seemed startled, really, when he caught up, reaching for a tiny pistol concealed at the hip of her riding skirt. But when she saw his face, her hand relaxed, and she smiled at him. 

“Oh,” she said, “it’s you.” She turned her horse so she faced him, near enough to touch. 

He took a deep breath and reached for the sprig of white, starry jasmine in his shirt pocket. 

TWO

He had very few memories of those strange, painful days after he was shot. He remembered the sudden lightning bolt of pain in his shoulder, and weakly falling back to her doorstep; he remembered her kisses, and collapsing into her loft; and he remembered, just briefly, waking up after Rance had left, and her helping him to the bed. 

There are two more faint recollections, also. Less memories than just moments of fragile awareness in his delirious, wounded body. 

He remembered the weak sun rising, the world bright with fresh snow, and her golden hair spilling down his chest as she listened to him breathe. He’d taken her hand. 

And something more-- waking up, just for a moment, and his eyes watching her silhouette traced in moonlight, asleep on the rocking chair at his side. Watching over him, even in rest, protecting him from the world, even if for only a night. 

THREE

Mornings were cruel. The nights were long and cold, the fire far and dim. His shoulder screamed with stiffness and disuse. But she was there, and that was a reason for him to wake up each morning. 

If she woke early, she’d get up, making coffee and starting the fire. Sometimes he’d open his eyes to her curled up in her rocking chair, hair loosely tied back and tumbling over her shoulder, a book on her lap and a mug of coffee in her hand. Yes, those mornings were good mornings. 

The best mornings were those when he woke first. When he could watch her wake up, or wake her up with a kiss, watching her nose crinkle, watch her clear blue eyes blink the sleepiness away. When he could playfully convince her to stay with him just a little longer; when they would tell stories from their lives, getting to know childhoods and histories and futures. When he could feel not like a thief, not like a liar, not like a hunted, wanted, wounded man, but just a man. A man who loved, and was loved just the same. They could not take that away from him. 

FOUR

Despite the searing, raw heat of the fire, the night was bitterly cold with the damp chill of early spring. She shivered next to him, their legs pressed together, their arms tangled together, his tears mixing with her own. He wrapped his coat around her without thinking twice about it. 

He knew she slept then only because she fell still, and he could hear her cry no more. 

FIVE

At first he did not understand why she so solemnly refused to accept help from Nick and Verity. Rance he understood-- at least on a superficial level, though he suspected there was something he still was not being told. But Nick and Verity-- these were Minnie’s friends, his friends, even. 

Yet he had seen the desperation and hesitation in her eyes that morning, and still she had refused. He’d spoken for her, saying it was for safety, saying the bandits were dangerous and would kill anyone who got in their way. It was the truth. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but a truth nonetheless. 

He opened his eyes before dawn the next morning, before she was awake. She lay next to him, a quilt wrapped around her like a child, and he watched the softness of her face, the way she breathed as she dreamt next to him. 

Accepting help was never something that came easily to her, for she was a free creature, hating to be tied down. She lived on the mountain because she liked it there, she’d said. She’d lived alone because it suited her. She guarded her independence fiercely.

He took her into his arms and fell back into a light slumber.

SIX

They were married in a chapel smaller than her cabin, somewhere in the vast, unsettled land of Northern California and the Oregon Territory. No family filled the pews-- there was no veil, no ring-- just her and him and the minister, their vows echoing in the small, clean space. 

He kissed her chastely, with just enough promise to make her blush and make the priest snap his Bible shut and look to his feet. 

They laid now, together, bare skin pressed against bare skin, her asleep in his arms. He’d held here then, as she’d gasped under his touch, as he’d brushed gentle, needy kisses across her face, until her chest heaved and she’d closed her eyes, whispering his name over and over again like a song. He held her now, though his eyes were heavy and his body tired, savoring her warmth against him as they slept, husband and wife. 

SEVEN

He watches her sleep now, curled next to him, blonde hair in a neat bun except for a stray curl escaping across the white pillows. 

They will have a farm, he decides, with a fruit orchard-- apples, and cherry trees, yes-- and a garden, and chickens. The farmhouse will be modest but warm, with a soft bed and shelves of books. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer to him as she sleeps, and she snuggles into his warmth. 

They are not so young anymore, he thinks. He spreads his fingers over the soft skin of her stomach, feeling the strong muscles underneath as she breathes. He wonders if she can still bear children. He wonders if she would even want to. 

They will have two dogs, he decides, and their horses. They will ride the mountain trails of this strange new land together. 

They have all the time in the world


End file.
